It’s been a while. I stopped posting because I promised myself that I wouldn’t put anything on here if I started choosing my words based on the readers’ feelings. I don’t know where the worry came from or why, but it was there. It was there and that meant that whatever I said wouldn’t be what I really wanted to say.
Well, fuck that. Hiding never got me anywhere.
So here’s the ugly truth: It all hurts a little right now. I feel so stupid for feeling this way. My life is pretty damn great and a lot of my hardships are my own doing… But there’s a heaviness in my chest and it’s making me less than my best. I don’t want anyone to see it. I don’t want anyone to see my weakness.
Why do I keep forgetting that there’s strength in weakness? That there can be no courage without fear?
So yes, it hurts. I’ve frozen. I’m not taking care of the things I need to be taking care of. There are too many, I can’t focus enough to see priority, and so I just stand still.
And there’s nothing I hate more. Being stuck, making no progress, I cannot stand it! Absentmindedly, I scratch and claw at my own skin, as if trying to dig to the part of me that gets shit done.
Which, of course, just creates more problems.
I’m trying to fix it, but I’m just treating the symptoms, not the disease. I could get help, I know I could, but I don’t want to burden anyone. I exaggerate and joke about more entertaining, less significant flaws, using misdirection to take focus off the things I don’t want noticed.
And it works (mostly). But I hate it.
So, here I am, saying what I don’t want to say. I’ve stopped typing more times than I can count, distracted myself, trying to escape the discomfort, giving myself an out. You’re reading this, so obviously I didn’t take it.
I thought I would start off strong, fold for hours, and produce great results.
I was wrong. Crane count: 2.
But it ended up working out perfectly for me, in a way.
I chose to come out of isolation and socialize instead. I spent quite a bit of time with two people who are important to me, laughing and enjoying ridiculousness. It felt divine. How long had it been? I don’t even want to guess. I was just happy to lay aside complicated history and current circumstances and self-doubt. I was happy to just be, with people who knew me. The deep thoughts from that day and the conversations of the next are exactly what I wanted while folding.
It’s after 4am, I’ve got a single song on repeat, and I’m ready to spill my guts
I was in a call with my adopted daughter, describing a friend of mine who passed away before my daughter and I met. She spoke three words that linger in my mind.
That’s True Love
True love. They say it, they sing about it, but how often does anyone actually know it? Have I? Whether platonic or romantic, was it, in fact, true love?
Yes, I’ve had it.
Anyone who knows my past would think I was about to talk about that one guy I couldn’t fall out of love with for fifteen years. And yes, I loved him. I loved him to an insane degree. I poured my soul into him, believing his was my mate. He seemed to feel the same; I was still in his heart. The intensity of our connection was something all could see. Surely this was true love?
Close, but not quite. From the beginning, I put this man on a pedestal so high that I couldn’t quite see him. I took what I saw and filled in the rest with legend. I believed in my story, sang it up to him and made him believe it, too. Yes, I loved him deeply, madly, but it was not true. It was a combination of him and my own design. And he, he loved me, at least what he could see.. but much of his focus was on the serenade. He loved my story, but his love wasn’t true. He loved only the legend and the mind that made the lie.
So many lies with so many guys.
But one man stands out. He knew me, I knew him. We may not have known all the details, but they didn’t matter – we were friends and loved each other unconditionally. We loved what we could see and what we couldn’t. We loved what we agreed on and what we didn’t. We loved all versions; past, future, and present.
That’s true love.
Years after he has passed, I still feel him with me. True love that lasts beyond death.. It exists, and that means it is possible again.
Thank you, my friend. Although you’re gone, you’re still the one I lean on.
A few days ago, I was sitting in my room, feeling very single, when it hit me – a thousand paper cranes.
A belief exists that a person will be granted a wish if they fold one thousand origami cranes. Do I believe in such things? Not exactly. Am I skilled in origami? Not at all; in fact, origami is very difficult for me and will likely hurt my hands quite a bit. I don’t even really have the money for the paper.
So why? Honestly, sometimes, beyond all reason, something just feels right.
So, I’m going to fold 1,000 paper cranes, and I will wish for love. I don’t know how long it will take. I don’t know how much pain it will cause me. I don’t really expect anything to happen at the end of this all. I am curious how it will all turn out. What emotions will I go through? How much effort will I put in each day? Will I start believing? With I find the hope I’ve lost somewhere along the way? Will I change my wish at the end? Will I even finish?
I have been isolating more lately, and though I wish to feign ignorance, I cannot. I know exactly why.
People have different definitions of friendship. For some, playing games together is enough reason to consider others friends. If they enjoy time together, they have a friendship.
I’m sorry, but it’s just not the same for me.
Anyone who knows me, knows that if I care, I’m all in. The same goes for friendship. We don’t have to talk everyday, but I do have to feel a genuine bond with someone to consider them a friend. They have to be someone I think about when they’re not around. They have to be someone who shares a little of their soul with me. If I feel connected to a person, I will give my all to be there for them, with them.
But if I don’t feel connected, they simply fade away.
I still see them around when I have the energy for groups, and I enjoy their company. I don’t just stop caring. If anyone needs me, I’m still here. But… I’m not going to lend my energy to the superficial if I can’t get to the layers beneath it. And I *know* that no one can be everything to everyone, but I don’t need everyone. I just want a few deeper friendships. I want even a fraction of that love and support that I offer.
But it’s hard. It’s hard because more and more people seem to only be interested in the other type of friendship. I have a couple of real friends, but they, too, isolate or are busy and are so far away, and I just
wish
that I could have someone here who made me feel like doing things with them was better than doing them by myself.
Sometimes I ask myself why everything I write is about love.. but the answer is in the question, isn’t it? Love IS everything, at least to me.
I suppose the word usually represents romantic feelings to others, but it’s not the same for me. Love, to me, is peaceful passion. It is care and worry and hope. I can love a partner, family, friends, but I also feel a deep love for life itself.
So funny, from someone with depression, right? Someone who sometimes sobs for hours in the dark morning hours, wondering if it’s really worth it to go on. One might think that I hate life.
But I love it. I love the stars in the sky, seeing the moon during daylight, hearing wind blow through the trees. I love crowded trains and seeing strangers holding hands. I love coming across creative graffiti and seeing seagulls steal food from tourists. I love when trash on the sidewalk happens to make a smiley face and when people babble things in public that only make sense to them. I love skinned knees and the swears that flow when someone stubs their toe.
I love life, with all its chaotic emotions and excruciating beauty.
But I hate, I am infuriated, I am torn to shreds by the things that try to keep me from life.
You know what I mean, right? Those things that try to devour the soul. Those cold things that extinguish all meaning in life and make you feel like an empty shell.
That’s where my depression comes from.
But the best cure for that is love. It can be literally any kind of love, as long as you truly feel it.
So if I seem to focus a little too hard on this single subject, I ask you not to forgive, but to embrace it… For love is my foundation, and it will never be replaced.
My first language was Love.. but I can only speak it. I don’t understand it.
Okay, Okay, bad joke. Give me a break, it’s super early and I haven’t slept much in over a week.
So. Love Language. I really hate that term, though I have no real reason why. I guess I feel like it oversimplifies a complex subject. I have to admit, though, that knowing the ways you give and receive love can be helpful… but people treat it like the zodiac, like these labels are somehow going to tell you everything you need to know.
When it comes to receiving, this is accurate. Quality Time is my #1. That’s what shows me you care. I try to be accepting of others’ methods of showing love, but my mind cannot wrap itself around someone genuinely caring without without butting time into our relationship.
And Quality Time doesn’t refer to big, important things. Yes, it can be going on a trip together. It can also be staying up late talking. It can be taking a class together or playing a video game. It can be working on a home improvement project or going for a walk. It can even be each of us doing our own thing, but in the same room. It just means that whatever we’re doing, we feel each other’s presence.
Acts of Service
I think this is #2 because of how little I’ve experienced it in relationships. I feel like that was honestly a huge sign that I was going down the wrong path. Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely independent and do not often like accepting help (I’m working on it, okay?). but if I’m struggling and a person is completely aware, could easily help without it costing more than a little of their time, and they still don’t offer… doesn’t that show they don’t care?
To be fair, I have become more sensitive about this issue since my disability was triggered. I am always willing to help others, even when it means a major sacrifice for myself, so if I’m obviously struggling, severely sick or in extreme pain, and someone doesn’t seem to care, what could we possibly be to each other?
Words of Affirmation
This shows as half as important as my main, and that makes sense to me. Half the time I don’t believe these words. Unlike the top two choices, words are easy to fake. People say things for all kinds of ulterior motives and it’s hard to find someone who actually speaks honestly. I tend to prefer people who say such things sparingly, because then it actually feels like they mean it when they finally do say it.
On the other hand, not saying such things often enough can make a person feel unappreciated and unloved. They may even start feeling like the other categories are done out of obligation. This is one reason why I try to take time out every once in a while to remind people that I love and appreciate them, and that I’m proud of them. Some say I do it too often, or believe I am too emphatic or poetic to be genuine, but I mean it all the same. Perhaps this makes me a hypocrite.
Gifts
Here’s where we really get into the hypocritical stage. Receiving gifts that are personalized and thought out is absolutely meaningful. It is a wonderful thing.
And I don’t trust it.
I am not big on material items in the first place. I love things, because things are cute or cool or whatever, but I don’t worship them the way others seem to. If I’m receiving a thing, it better have heart put into it. It better invoke a memory or tell a story about us or in some way touch my soul. It has to have meaning. If it’s a game we can play together, great! If it’s a framed photo of us, that’s sweet. If it’s food, you’re trying to help me take care of myself and that’s amazing. But if it’s a hedgehog plush because you know I like hedgehogs, that’s cute and all, but it’s just a thing. I’ll feel guilty that you wasted the money.
However, I’m a person who likes surprising people with gifts. Usually they qualify as another category as well, so maybe I’m not a total hypocrite.
Physical Touch
Okay, this is… this is a difficult one. It depends, right? I guess for some people it doesn’t, but for me.. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just changed. In high school, I’d have people I’d never met coming to me for hugs and I thought that was the nicest thing. I could show them a little affection, I could show them a little love, without knowing a thing about them. I remember one guy who just spent an entire lunch hour with his arms wrapped around me and I never even learned his name. I happened to see him years later and he remembered me so fondly, that he tried to date me. But I considered it a form of caretaking, comforting.
I don’t like when I go to a church and the greeters hug me. I tolerate it when friends hug me. I like when my kids hug me, and I love when my partner hugs me. As for other touch, I really prefer if it’s only from my partner.
But if I really love them, I touch them often. Love bites, holding hands at home, hugging from behind while they are cooking or washing dishes, playing with their hair, stroking their chest with my fingertips as we cuddle in bed.. I do it all.
And sexual touching and teasing is great, too, especially in public. However, I think my score in this was so low because so much of the physical touch I’ve gotten from partners was sexual or was expected to turn sexual. I miss the cute, sweet, innocent stuff. Sex without the rest is just sex. The sweet stuff makes it love.
Overall
So truth be told, the test was only accurate for my receiving love, not my giving love. This is how I accept love, but I give it intensely, through all methods possible. I love in a way that makes every guy I date want to propose quickly, and leaves a void for them after we break up. I have a tendency to pick men who do not show love in the ways that I need, contrary to what they promise when talking me into the relationship. I have a hard time trusting that friends care about me when I never get time with them.
I know all this, I know myself, I love myself as-is, but I’m still lonely.
When I was a kid, I had a neighbor who didn’t speak English. Her family members did, and I knew them fairly well, but she and I had no language shared. Still, on my way home from school, she would stop me and invite me inside. She was often the only one home, and I would just sit at the kitchen table as she cooked me something wonderful. I didn’t always know what she had made, but I always ate it, always enjoyed it, and she always smiled so beautifully as I did. Then I’d thank her and be on my way.
Looking back, I wonder.. did she know I was starved at home? Did she know I felt alone, unloved? Did she know that she was a blessing for this broken, pitiful little girl?
Her own grandchildren were terrible, rude, and inconsiderate. They had some level of respect for her, but when visiting, would hit, belittle, and swear at their father and aunt. We were friends, but it was that kind of friendship you had when you were thrown together because you were the same age and your parents knew each other. I felt sorry for their family – Their sweet aunt, a slightly crazy caretaker who would stop me on the street to tell me I was beautiful, like a porcelain doll, their kind father, a friendly, good-natured pushover, who had probably saved my life a handful of times,, and that wonderful grandmother.
Did she know? Did her daughter and son? Did any of them know that they were my angels, my saviors, as my own family neglected me, hated me, plotted my death? Did any of them have a clue that they were saving this shredded soul?
I was so young, so shy, so afraid.. I never told them what it meant to me.
And there were others angels, too. My uncle, who never got along with my father, but would try, and got me away from him from time to time. My teacher, who knew I was in pain, but gave me a break sometimes and tried to make me believe in myself. The guys who watched over me in high school, protected me from going too far when I was not okay and wanted to act out. The friends who gave me a quiet place to talk about real things, when I wasn’t in the mood to go play social butterfly to the masses.
And even in adulthood, the friend who supported me from the background, no matter what, when, or where.
Have any of them ever known that they are the reason this heart is still beating? The reason I can let go and laugh and love myself? And how many out there are doing these little things, things that they think are nothing, things that are saving someone like me?
I wanted to tell you about my pain, But I deleted it. I wanted you to understand the invisible struggles. I wanted you to see me.
But what can I say? What can I do to make it click? Facts? Memes? An outpouring of emotion? Shall I cry, scream, beg? Shall I draw it, write it, sing it for you? How do I make you see This invisible disease?
If I could let you feel it…
For only a moment…
I wouldn’t.
So I’ll keep wearing my smile to hide gritted teeth. I’ll continue to laugh to keep from screaming. I’ll watch heartfelt shows, so I can live and love Vicariously.
While grieving my potential.
While mourning the person I used to be.
But don’t worry, because I still notice the ocean, The flowers and the trees, I still breathe in Autumn air, feel the Spring showers, And watch Winter’s snow. Though Summer may make me Immobile and weak, I still watch children playing, With a smile. I cherish these moments, Knowing I may not be present For the next.
I love my life, when I get to live it. I love good food, trees, and all the different colors that the sky takes. I love spider webs and ants and flowers that grow in the cracks of cement. I love the sound of hearty laughter, telling people I love them, and seeing strangers smile. I love twirling in the rain and making wishes on dandelions and listening to a song for the first time.
But life is also hard. It can be excruciating, even in the happy moments. It’s overwhelming and exhausting trying to exist in a society that cares more about money and social status than about people themselves. It’s a drama that often shows as a tragedy, and I sometimes struggle to make it a heartwarming comedy. I love it, but it takes everything inside me to be able to love it.
I have been battling depression for my entire life. Sometimes it comes close to winning.
I don’t like admitting it. I HATE admitting it. I don’t want people to know. I don’t want people to worry, or pretend to. I don’t want people to see this, because what good will it do for them? How will it help others to know that sometimes I just don’t want to live?
Most of the time, I’m okay. It’s hard and I want to run away or hide or just sleep, but I also enjoy things. Most of the time it is that or better. But then there are the other times-
The times when everything I do seems to make things worse. The times when I feel like a failure, unworthy of what I’ve been given. The times when I feel like I contribute nothing positive to this world. The times when I believe no one but my children would truly be affected if I disappeared.
They are rare, only in my most painful moments. When I was younger, I would write about how I’d end it. I’d play it out in my head. I’d hold the pill bottles or the knife in my hand and stare at them. But I’d only take a few, I’d only slice a little, I’d do just a tiny bit of damage, then go back to my hell. I fought for my life when others threatened it and I never truly attempted to take it myself. I don’t even tell myself I will anymore (even if I sometimes wish I could). I fought it all and I will continue to fight. I’m still here.
And you are the reason.
You who love me, whoever you may be. You who still lean on me. You who are gone, whose shared memories only live on within me. You, whom I have not yet met, but who will become one of these people.
I cannot bear to hurt you.
So any time you see me, any time you are reminded of my existence, I hope you’ll smile to yourself a little. I hope you’ll understand how important you are. You, just by being in this world, are helping to save a life. Thank you. Thank you for being my reason.
I’ve only just gotten used to the fact that it’s 2023 and now it’s almost gone. If it weren’t for this one major change in my life, I might not believe that 2023 ever existed at all.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this, so let’s just see what comes out, shall we?
When I made this move, this choice for myself earlier this year, I was excited to announce that the “selfish” act did not cause the world to end. And it didn’t. Really, I know that this situation is temporary. But… man, is this dragging on. It’s torture. It’s Hell. I have something beautiful just out of reach. My fingertips graze it, but I can’t quite get a hold. Yes, I’m closer, yes, that’s a victory in itself, but fuck, can’t I just have it? Can’t I just have something, anything to hold onto? Can’t I have one, any one thing, come easy, so I can breathe without wondering if each breath is my last? Please?
Fuck.
I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to vent or show how I’m feeling. I wanted to write a message of hope for the new year, whether I truly felt it or not. I wanted to take that mask to the grave. But I can’t anymore. I’m tired and I’m injured and the mask is broken beyond repair. I can’t fake it for you anymore. I’m sorry.
I smile and laugh a little every day. 2023 gave me that. I’m expressing myself more than I have in a long while. I’ve gotten closer to some friends and have grown distant from most others. That sounds sad, but it’s likely for the best. I am mentally, emotionally, and physically stronger, though it doesn’t seem to be that way. I love myself and care for myself more, though still not as much as I should. Right now, the days feel no different from past years, but deep down I know that a great deal of progress has been made.
But 2023, I won’t miss you.
This year was hard in ways it shouldn’t have been. It was excruciating and frightening and heartbreaking. I feel as if my soul has been stretched and pulled, like taffy. And all I can do is say, “I’ll be okay,” because I can’t even lie and pretend I’m okay now. But maybe I am, because I’m still alive and what the hell does “I’m okay” mean, anyway?
Geez, I seem to have a lot to say.
And I don’t know where to go from here. Do I learn my lesson and start 2024 off guarded, isolated, alone? Do I choose hope, knowing I’ll continue to be crushed over and over, until I’m left unrecognizable? Do I pick up an old mask and return to a life of lies, just to be with others again? No matter the choice, I will be lonely. No matter the decision, I will be in pain. It’s just about what I’m willing to sacrifice: Soul, heart, or dignity?
And that’s the thing, really. I’ve finally realized that my purpose is to sacrifice. It’s no grander or greater plan than that. I exist to lose, so others can win. I create the balance.
And there’s beauty in that, right? I know that I’d have chosen it. It’s who I am. I get my joy from that of others. But goddamn, this shit sucks sometimes. How, HOW does Life keep finding things to take from me?
And I’m still blessed, because I have the love for and from the people around me and blah blah blah, positivity and shit. And I really mean it, but also fuck all that. I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone else’s, but I want to be stupid enough to think I would. I want to be ignorant enough to feel that all this pain is for nothing. I want to want to curse the gods and anyone else in a place of power, and scream THIS ISN’T FAIR! FIX IT!
But I can’t, because I’m not that stupid. I know that my sacrifice can be used to help others. I know I’ve made a positive impact. I know that I wouldn’t be happy if everything came easy. I know that my few loved ones are so much more than worth all that I have had to endure. I know that happy phases will come again. I know that no one is going to fix this, because this is how it’s meant to be.
And though I know it will lead to disappointment, I will choose hope. I will choose to trust in promises and agreements and protocols. I will have faith in the intentions of others. I will no longer conceal my heart when it’s beautiful, when it’s longing, when it’s afraid. I will not hide behind sadness.
Yelling to Myself 